


The Age of Communication

by Sab



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: (Uploaded by Punk), Characters Writing Fanfic, M/M, Sex in the Holosuite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-01-08
Updated: 1998-01-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 02:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sab/pseuds/Sab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Downtime. (Uploaded by Punk, from alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Age of Communication

Duncan plucked his cat off atop his monitor for the seventeen-billionth time, and tossed her to the floor. She scampered up again. Sighing, he stroked her idly, kicking the surge protector switch with a socked toe. The computer booted up.

"Inbox opened with 21 messages," the dialog box read. Duncan clicked the flickering icon, scrolled down through letters about course changes, his mom imploring him to write grandpa, a reminder from his basketball coach, an invitation to a frat party. But nothing important. He sighed, launched Netscape, leaning back into his chair.

***

"I don't think so," O'Brien said. "I saw you stepping forward when you thought I wasn't looking. _I_ throw from up here, _you_ throw from back there."

Bashir grumbled slightly as he plucked the darts from the board and scuffled back to let O'Brien take his turn.

//It's a good thing Keiko likes me,// Julian thought. //When she gets back to the station tomorrow, maybe they'll invite me for dinner. _Oh, no_ , I'll say, of course, but they'll insist. _No, Keiko, you haven't seen your husband in months; you'll want to be alone together_ , I'll say, but Miles will grab my sleeve and Keiko will say, _Julian, don't be silly. You two are inseparable. It's like you're part of the family._

 _Well, in that case_ , I'll say - //

"Julian! Julian!" Miles stood, scowling at him. "It's your turn. Honestly, I don't know where you've been wandering off to, lately."

"You're right, Chief," Bashir bowed his head. "I'm sorry. I guess I have been - preoccupied - for the last couple of days. I don't know what's gotten in to me."

"Well, _I_ do," O'Brien said, clapping a hand on the slighter man's shoulder. "It's plain as day to anyone who's looking - you're lonely."

"Lonely, you say?" the ubiquitous Quark poked a head across the bar and squinted at Bashir. "I've got a holosuite program - brand new - that promises to make you forget the meaning of the word 'lonely.'"

"No, thank you, Quark," Bashir said deliberately, spitting out each word, just as O'Brien was saying -

"You know, that might not be a bad idea."

Julian stared at his Irish friend. "You can't be serious," he began.

"As a heart attack," O'Brien said. "Trust me. I think it'll do you good. Even genetically-enhanced folk need their recreation time, I'll wager. And just to show you how serious I am, this one's on me."

Before Bashir could argue, Quark had the reservation PADD out and O'Brien was signing away credits. Bashir sighed.

***

Duncan dragged his cursor to the "Window" menu, pulled down to the newsserver item. Usenet blossomed on the screen in front of him, a wide tangle of branches, most beginning with the letters alt.startrek, or rec.arts.startrek. He clicked on the top one.

"Oh, cool, something new by OdoGoddess!" Duncan said. The cat looked thrilled beyond belief, sprawled across the top of his monitor, chewing her elbow intently. "And it looks like Alara wants someone to take over the archive. I shouldn't, right?" The cat convinced him, through carefully worded discourse, that adopting such a commitment while still in college would be a fool move at best. Duncan scrolled on.

"Still _no_ comments on my story!" He said aloud. "It's been up - what, a week?" The cat didn't answer, licked a paw lazily. "This looks interesting, though," he said, clicking open section 1 of 4 of some G/B slash. Crossing his legs and casting an embarrassed look around his empty apartment, he began to read.

***

//"Downtime,"// Bashir mused, reading the program's title on the holochip jacket. //Maybe the chief was right. I could certainly do with a little of that.// He inserted the chip, and the holosuite door rolled open.

To reveal a sunny landscape, hoverboats skimming across the mirror-surface of a small lake, the shadowy shape of stone buildings in the distance. On the shore, a small boathouse stood on splints over the edge of the water, minty sunlight glancing off its windows. Julian walked down the grassy slope toward the water, kicked off his shoes and smiled, watching the boats chase each other, their frothy wakes painting cryptic images on the water.

He had just found the sun, positioned himself so that both sides of his face were warmed evenly, and settled, eyes closed into the grass, listening to the hum of the boats and the rattling-chirping of local birds, when a shadow passed over his face, and a voice wrested him from his reverie. "Doctor?" the voice said. Julian squinted up. A young man, perhaps five or six years Julian's junior, stood over him, dressed in seersucker shorts and some sort of grey, jersey-like long-sleeved top, embroidered with the letters UPENN. A round, brimmed, white cap with the same lettering shielded his eyes.

***

He wiped his brow, tore off his Penn sweatshirt, paced the room once. It was a good story, and Duncan was more than a little aroused. Tossing several embarrassed looks to the windows (blinds down), he returned to his desk, punched in the URL for his favorite chatroom.

[Duncan@upenn.edu has entered the room]

***

"Yes?" Bashir said. "What can I do for you?"

"I - uh - need a physical examination before I go back to school," the young man said. "It's for the basketball team."

Julian grinned. "I _know_ basketball! You're really tall, and you thrown an orange, rubbery sphere around, smacking it against the floor every now and again, creating wonderful, echoing sounds in, I might add, an acoustically-splendid venue!"

"Yup," the boy said, looking at Bashir sideways, trying to decide whether the doctor was kidding.

"Well, I'm sorry," Julian was still smiling, "but I'm afraid I'm off duty, and I don't have any of my equipment with me. You'll have to find another doctor."

The boy raised a finger at Julian. "One sec," he said, and raced off toward the boathouse.

//Okay,// Julian admitted. //Miles was right. Hell, Quark was right. This is nice.// He watched the boy pad off across the grass, the muscles in his legs defining and redefining their sinewy selves with every lope. Julian sighed.

"Doctor!" he heard, a moment later, and looked up. The boy was waving from the boathouse. "Come here!"

Julian rose, brushed himself off. He cast a glance at his shoes and raced off, barefoot, to the cabin.

***

TheDoctor: Hi, Duncan.

Duncan: Hi. Busy?

TheDoctor: Never too busy for you. I was hoping you'd show up.

TheDoctor: <kisses Duncan, exploring for tonsilitis with his tongue>

***

Julian knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He pushed it open and it swung back, revealing an airy, whitewashed room with a leather couch in one corner, an end table littered with navigational equipment beside it, and an enormous, shellacked marlin mounted on the wall.

Julian didn't notice the marlin. He didn't even notice the end table. His eyes stopped at the couch, or, rather, what was lying across it. The boy had stripped, and was languidly stretched across the taut brown leather. He was all lines and muscle, from his flat, round slabs of pectoral to his solid, curving quadriceps. A black medical bag was strategically set on the boy's midsection, and Julian resisted the urge to lift it away, see what this young man had to offer. //A good program,// Julian thought again. //I owe Quark a 'thank you.'//

"Well," Bashir said, getting ahold of himself despite the straining in his trousers he was sure must be visable to the folks in the hoverboats. "What can I do for you?"

The boy beckoned him with a finger, pointed to the bag. "Here's what I've got," he said. "What do you think?"

Julian picked up the bag, looked underneath. The boy's penis was purple, veiny, pointed up with authority, nearly to the boy's navel. Julian caught his breath.

"Is it enough?" The boy asked.

"More than enough," Julian squeaked. Then, realizing the question he was supposed to be answering, peered in the bag. Tricorder, PADD, reflex hammer, small lamp. "Yes, plenty," he said. "Shall we?"

"I'd love to," the boy said.

***

Duncan: Well! If that's the way you feel about it -

Duncan: <brushes a hand lightly up the inside of TheDoctor's thigh>

TheDoctor: Shall we?

Duncan: I'd love to.

***

Bashir forced himself to examine the boy thoroughly with his tricorder first, making sure skin never touched skin. The restraint was blissfully killing him. His cheeks were hot and his stomach looped and dove as he painstakingly recorded the boy's stats. Height: perfect. Weight: perfect. Shape: perfect. Skin: perfect. Julian remembered, briefly, to breathe, blink, and salivate. His hands trembled.

"I'm going to - check your abdomen. This may tickle," Bashir warned, blowing on his hands to warm them.

"Don't worry, I'm not ticklish," the boy said as Julian's fingers began to play his midsection like a stringed instrument. He tensed his muscles and purred.

***

Duncan: <purrrrr>

***

Bashir couldn't stand it any longer. The boy's skin was flawless, hairless to the triangular bush between his legs, and continuing, in rust-colored, curly tendrils down his shapely legs. Bashir stroked the boy's chest with the back of a hand, marvelling.

"Come here," the boy murmured, reaching for Bashir's collar and pulling the doctor down toward him.

 _"Computer, freeze program!"_ Bashir tore off his uniform, panting, folded it and set it on the floor. Then he crawled back to the couch, straddled the boy's chest. _"Computer, resume program!"_

Taking Bashir by the shoulders and gently, gently turning him over, the boy pulled himself over on top of the doctor, pressing Bashir's face into the salty leather of the couch. To the pulsing, throbbing beat of the young man making love to him, stroking his chest, running fingers through his hair, Bashir closed his eyes and counted stars. He never stopped smiling.

***

Duncan: <enters TheDoctor from behind, thrusts repeatedly.>

TheDoctor: <breathing heavily, tearing at the mattress with his fingernails.>

Duncan: We're on a couch.

TheDoctor: <tearing at the couch with his fingernails.>

Duncan: <sweating, screaming, spitting, smiling - aaaaaahhhhh!>

***

Bashir sat beside the boy, looked into his eyes. "Thank you," he said.

"I was about to say the same thing," the boy said, pulling on his clothing.

"You're leaving?" Bashir looked solemn, sitting all pale and birdlike and naked on the couch, his thin legs crossed demurely.

"Yeah, I've got a ton of homework to do," the boy said. "And, I want to check my e-mail, because I posted a story to this newsgroup and I want to know if anyone commented."

Bashir, looking a little lost, simply nodded. He rose, started dressing. "What kind of story?"

"Oh," the boy laughed, "Star Trek fan fiction.."

Bashir, confused, stared at his feet. "Well," he began, deciding on a safe thing to say, "you'll have to let me read some..."

"Deal," the boy said. Winking at Bashir, he exited the boathouse, turned right, and disappeared up a winding path.

That wink, that smile, that image stayed with Julian for a long moment, paralyzed, before he got up to leave.

***

It was foggy in LA, just after a rainstorm. The Audi whipped around the corner, nearly knocking twin plastic garbage cans into a shiny oil-slick puddle, reflecting rainbows.

//Gotta slow down,// the driver thought, downshifting and switching off his turn signal. On the radio, a fast-talking woman informed him that the Spice Girls got shafted, Grammy-wise. She cued up their song and started playing it, the Audi driver humming along, very off-key. He had reached the turn to his house when he smacked the wheel in frustration. //Flinstone vitamins!// he said. //She's gonna kill me.// Turning the wheel, he swung a 180 and headed back into the city.

And slammed on the brakes a moment too late. The car sputtered in a puddle and tailspun to the left, and the boy who had leaped into the road now lay sprawled on the curb. The driver jerked on the parking brake and rushed to the boy's aid.

"I'm okay," the boy said, pulling himself to his feet. He was tall and thin, perhaps in his early twenties. His Upenn sweatshirt was spattered with mud and oil, and a baseball cap lay in the puddle. The Audi driver picked it up, wiped it on his jeans, and handed it to the boy, sheepishly.

"It was my fault," the boy said. "I totally wasn't looking. Don't worry."

"Thanks," the Audi driver sighed. He squinted at the boy. "Do I know you?" he asked in a clipped British accent.

"I don't know," the boy said. "What's your name?"

"Alexander," the man replied. "Alexander Siddig."


End file.
